The knitting fell from Marion's nerveless fingers. She can show you the uneven row on the jumper where she dropped fifteen stitches at that moment.
[Illustration: Marion dropped fifteen stitches.]
'I shall be most happy to meet your mother,' she murmured.
'This is really good of you,' he said eagerly. 'You see, you're the very one she would take to in an instant. I knew it directly I met you. I don't know any one else she would listen to so willingly, if you will consent to intervene.'
'Intervene!' echoed Marion. Somehow she did not like the word. Not at that moment, I mean.
'Yes, intervene,' he repeated. There was no mistaking it—what could be clearer. Latin, inter, between; venio, I come. Marion may have translated it differently, but she had served in the capacity of buffer too often to misinterpret its meaning.
'I am to understand that you wish for my aid in a love affair?' she said.
'That's just about it. You see, I always hoped I should fall in love with a quiet, homely, staid sort of girl, but dash it all, you can't govern these things, can you?'